No Friends
by JuweWright
Summary: One shot set after Sherlock tells John he doesn't have any friends in "Baskervilles". No slash!


Story: Heya. So this is a one-shot that came to my mind after watching that particular scene in "Baskervilles" where Sherlock tells John he doesn't have any friends.

Characters: John W., Sherlock H. No slash!

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

**No friends**

„I don't have any friends."

It was still echoing in John Watsons head.

„I meant what I said. I don't have any friends."

Great. So what was _he_ then? The idiot sidekick that was just good enough to endure all these moods, fits of complete and utter strangeness , the experiments in the kitchen, the glass of actual thumbs in the fridge...

Whatever. Why had he even considered it could be any different? Why had he thought that Sherlock cared for him in any way? Sherlock didn't have friends. No. He didn't do friendship. Someone who was so completely unable to show any sign of empathy for others and who had to look feelings up on the internet because he didn't understand them... someone like that could never ever decide to actually like his flatmate and be friends with that flatmate.

So what did someone like Sherlock make of John being always there when he needed him? What did that man think why he endured all his chaos, his inability to make tea, his arrogance and all that? John kicked a stone away that was lying in a convenient position and cursed under his breath. Probably, Sherlock thought it was John's duty to care for him. Or – and that was more likely – the great detective who made a big deal of thinking a lot had never actually asked himself that question. "Why is John here?"

So, now John was _not_ there for a change. He had just turned on the spot and walked away and he would not turn around - even if he got a hundred text messages asking him to do exactly that.

_John, I need you here. SH_

_John, where are you? SH_

_John, there is something I found out about the case. SH_

All sent in the last 45 minutes - equalled a text every quarter of an hour. Not too bad but Sherlock had done better before. His highest rate had been at a text every five minutes. Just when he wanted to slip the phone back into his pocket, another message arrived.

_Come back, now! SH_

John klicked the reply button and typed

_No!_

Nothing else. He would not waste any more words on this matter. He had had enough of it. He walked along the path and looked about him. Dartmoor was so nice at this time of the year. If there had not been the barbed wire fence not too far off which surrounded the old minefield, the place would have been idyllic. Birds were singing in the trees, a cool breeze brought the scent of freshly mown grass. Sherlock was an idiot. And John was annoyed by himself because he couldn't steer his thoughts away from the detective. The problem was that Sherlock had become such a big part of the ex-army doctor's life lately that he didn't even have much else to think of. This was incredibly tedious.

_John!_

He wouldn't reply to that. Instead he switched the phone off and walked a little faster.

"Wait!"

He stopped mid-stride and froze. Had that been a familiar voice that had called after him? Slowly, very, very slowly he turned around. Sherlock was coming towards him. The detective looked slightly dishevelled, his scarf hanging loose, coat flapping, hair ruffled. Had he been _running _after him? And where was that stain on the knees of his trousers coming from?

Sherlock followed his glance and smiled a little embarrassed.

"Fell over", he explained. "Tried to text you while running. Didn't work particularly well."

John nodded but said nothing. For a few moments the two so different characters were standing opposite each other. The taller dark-haired one panting and catching his breath, the smaller one his chin uplifted, arms crossed.

"So?", John finally asked. "What happened that needs my attention? Did you solve the case and need someone to sing your praises on the internet after having listened to a load of I-am-such-a-genious-please-everybody-notice? Did you blow something up in the hotel room and need me to clean up the mess? Or did someone react strangely human to one of your investigations and you need someone to translate his behaviour into Sherlock-speak?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Neither. I just..." he hesitated. Sherlock Holmes lost for words?

"Listen... I probably wasn't too nice. I didn't even notice at first but..."

He stopped and seemed to wait for John to get the rest of his apology without him having to apologize. Not this time. This time he would have to go the whole way!

"Yes, I have to confirm you didn't behave at your best. Although I appreciate your honesty, I would rather not have faced reality in this matter."

_Because I care for you, because I have come to need you, because I miss you when you're not there_, he added in thoughts. _Because behind all that arrogance there seems to be a person worth loving although it seldom shines through and you're pretty good at hiding that part of you away. Because you play the fiddle in the middle of the night, because you blow up things in the kitchen and annoy the hell out of Mrs Hudson. It's so easy to like people because they are the way they are and because they do what they do, but it's much more difficult to like someone despite all his faults. I like you, although you are the weirdest character I have ever encountered in my life._

"I...", Sherlock pulled him away from his inner monologue. "I didn't realize what I had said. I mean. I never had friends, you know. And I'm not particularly good at being one, I guess, but... in your case.

I think that if there is one person in the world that I would call a friend, if there is one person that I would trust with my life, if there is one person that living without would make living a lot more difficult for me, then, I have to admit, this person would be you. "

John stared at his companion as if he had lost his mind.

"Are you serious?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Guess so."

John smiled and when Sherlock saw it, a smile crept onto his lips also.

They stood for a while, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the countryside. Then, as if following a signal, they both turned on the spot walking back the way they came, the tall detective and his only friend.


End file.
